Chapter Text
“What the fuck.”
She can feel Balerion’s confusion too, thick enough to take a stab at as it clouds the air around them.
Aerea clings tighter to the reins, her thighs chafing (she’s been in the saddle for so long, longer than she’d wanted to be but they couldn’t stop at Valyria, not with what had been inhibiting the ruins there) as she edges a little bit further forward in her seat. But the change in position does not alter what’s before her.
King’s Landing is wrong and yes, she was taken away from it, dragged kicking and screaming to Dragonstone but—
But it can’t have changed so blatantly in such a short space of time… could it? That fucking Dragon Pit (a shit idea really) looks fully built. It’s got a roof on and everything and that… they’d only started building it a few years ago. She’d been made to watch a fuck-awful wedding in there. And there are adjustments to the Red Keep, a building she knows inside and out (knew, it’s past tense now because that isn’t right).
Aerea reaches forward for that bit of scale right by the saddle, the only part of Balerion in touching distance because he is just so huge. Their start had been rocky; he’d shaken off some of her will, had snagged onto the one fleeting thought she’d had of seeing Valyria, and he’d ignored her desire not to get lower to get a closer look.
That’s when the first of those fucking monsters had made a leap for them. It was like a single one had jumped the bow, an arrow accidentally released before the instruction’d been given and it’d sunk its teeth into Balerion’s wing. But because of that single early attack, they’d known to get back, to fly higher. It meant all of the other crimes-against-the-gods had missed when they’d tried to attack the Black Dread.
From there, Balerion had flown higher, heading more toward the centre of the ruined land, Aerea clinging tighter to the saddle… and that’s when things had gotten a bit hazy. That’s when she’d… lost track of things.
By the time she’d come to, by the time her conscious mind had taken over, both she and Balerion were far, far away from his homeland, from the homeland of her ancestors. And something about the experience had tied them together, had taken their bond, that desperate panic of ‘we’re under attack and no fire is stopping these creatures’, and it had cemented their connection. She can feel Balerion’s exhaustion, can feel his hunger and pain. She can feel the way he wishes to curve his mountainous body around her like a protective cocoon. It has been the dragon’s quick thinking, he swift ascent despite the wound to his wing, that had saved Aerea.
It’d been Aerea’s desperate need to get away that’d driven their escape.
She wonders if Aegon the Conqueror had been this close to Balerion. If so, she can see why he trusted his mount enough to wage war on seven kingdoms in his one lifetime.
“Where can we land?” Aerea asks herself, coughing after the last of the words were out. She’d drunk from the little oasis that Balerion had landed by post-trip into Valyria, but she’d dared not drink too much, fearful of contamination. Especially when she didn’t know just how close or far they were from Valyria and those calamities made of flesh.
Fuck. A few of them’d had fucking human features; skin, legs— faces. The eyes had been gone, a sludge that dripped from the sockets—
Aerea pushes down the urge to upchuck, resting her palm against Balerion’s scale again, feeling the scorching heat of him against her flesh. With the Black Dread, no one will ever dream of telling her what to do now, will they? She’d forged a bond with him greater than any before had tried, perhaps on level with the Conqueror himself. And no one told Aegon Targaryen what to do.
“We’re not going back there,” Aerea swears, feeling the great dragon beneath her thighs snort in agreement. The air around his nostrils thickens with white steam, curling and clawing as it dies now that it has been exhaled from his body.
Balerion circles King’s Landing again and Aerea once again eyes the streets. She’s never actually flown over the city before so cannot say with certainty if the streets have changed, if there are more houses or less houses than before.
It still stinks of shit though.
They land just outside of the city walls. Aerea can hear the clamour of the city watch scrambling about which, she supposes, is understandable. Last anyone had heard of her and Balerion, they had been flying off into the rising sun. How much time has passed… well, her hair hasn’t grown by much, if at all. She’s no taller, her hips no wider. She hasn’t even lost that thin layer of fat despite going a few days with little to nothing to eat. Balerion is no larger, though that is harder to measure by.
And yet, King’s Landing has changed.
Swallowing, Aerea unclips herself from Balerion’s saddle with shaking hands, slipping twice on the mechanism before she finally gets hold of it properly. Released from the restraints, she shimmies to the side of her saddle, making a grab for the ropes. Only to miss.
Aerea swears, loud and clear and the kind of word that she’d get smacked for. But she doesn’t care because she’s tipping down the side of the Black Dread, a mountain of scales that’d be scraping at her skin if she weren’t in flying leathers and, even then, it’s only a matter of time until the texture of Balerion’s sides flay the fabric to expose her flesh.
The dragon (her dragon) shifts in response to her fall, wing spreading to catch her and the impact knocks the breath from Aerea, her body twisting and rolling as she slides down the thick, leathery membrane of Balerion’s wing.
She lands in a heap upon the ground, pained cry fleeing her lips when her ribs throb on impact. She’s quite certain there isn’t a break though. She’d had her arm broken by one of the horses back when she’d been working as a stablehand and it’d hurt far worse than this. Aerea flexes her fingers at the memory, checking all the digits respond as they should. Pushing her body up into a sitting position takes a bit more effort, has her swearing again through the pain despite how it would probably be easier if she saved her breath.
“Balerion?”
The dragon huffs in response, wing shuffling to shelter her from the sun and Aerea sighs, hands planted in the dirt with fingers spread wide, steadying herself.
The world shatters around her at the crash of another dragon’s roar, one that rolls across the sky and has Balerion tensing, shifting about beside her, tail curling defensively.
The beast that is in the sky now is massive.
Massive and… familiar.
“Is that… Vhagar?”
There is no denying it. While the massive she-dragon had been bonded to Visenya during Aerea’s lifetime, it had only been up until her second name day. Not long after that, the last of the conquering trio had died, leaving Vhagar riderless. Aerea’s cousin had tried to claim her, as had two sons of House Velaryon; both had failed and nearly been burnt to death for it.
Quite frankly, if they couldn’t recognise that a dragon didn’t like them, then Aerea’s of the opinion they deserved to be a little extra crispy.
Balerion growls, steam pouring from his maws, stalagmites and stalactites for teeth that are still stained crimson from the cattle he’d consumed before they crossed the Narrow Sea. It’s a seething breath, a creature of death and destruction recognising its likeness approaching and, for all that they have been allies past, that does not mean bonds remain. For the only bond Balerion has right now is to her and Aerea knows not anyone who rides Vhagar.
Her dragon (the Black Dread, a beast so feared descendants of his wrath quake at the mere mention of him) curls that little bit tighter around her, wounded wing over her and in a more defendable position. That beast from Valyria had caused damage, though Aerea shudders to think what a whole flock (a whole murder) of them could have done to Balerion… what they could have done to her. Perhaps they would have fought over her flesh, battled for the meat upon her bones. Perhaps one would have snagged her and devoured her in a single bite.
She knows they’d have had to take Balerion down first though, knows he’d have defended her with every ounce of tooth, claw and flame he possessed because she is his. Just as he is hers.
They watch as one while Vhagar lands, four eyes and two minds, one bond sharp and attentive as a dark clad figure rises on the saddle. From the build, Aerea would guess male, with shoulders broader than any woman she’s met before.
Vhagar’s rider defies all logic; he descends from her mountainous form with grace, hard won from years of effort. It’s impossible for Vhagar does not have a rider. Did not have a rider before Aerea left. There hasn’t been enough time for him to learn.
And she doesn’t recognise him either.
Aerea squares her own slight shoulders, reaches for the knife in her boot, the only weapon she has upon her. It’d would have won her no victories in Valyria, not against those horrors. But here, facing a dragonseed who dares to claim Vhagar? She fancies her chances. Especially when she considers the fact her opponent lacks one eye. He must be piss poor if he allowed someone to disfigure him in such a manner.
It’s been years since Aerea has allowed herself to be meek, years since she’s allowed anyone to control a confrontation (to control her) and that’s what makes her speak first. Better to strike rather than to block.
“Who the fuck are you.” Aerea doesn’t shout, for all that her voice is loud and clear. It rings like a Sept bell between them, echoes across the empty town of grass and dirt between them as they stand like giants, gods of fire and fury wrapped around their form.
Vhagar is almost as protective of the dragonseed as Balerion is of her. But she doubts this boy has been defended from horrors untold like she has, doubts his heart has pounded as one with a dragon’s as hers has. Aerea’s teeth grit, chewing over the reality of the situation so she may consider spitting it out in insult of swallowing it down to nourish her.
“I believe that should be my question,” the boy says, his single eye (a deep blue in colour; he’s not even got the right fucking colours, this dragonseed bastard that has taken Vhagar) tracing over Balerion’s form and something of family to awe washes over him. It is the same look everyone gets when they first have the chance to take stock of just how large Balerion is.
Aerea is mildly impressed the dragonseed manages to continue speaking once he has swept his eyes over the Black Dread. Few others are capable of such a feat.
“And I would mind your tone. I could have your tongue removed for such crass language.”
“I highly doubt the words of a dragonseed bastard would be favoured over a Princess of the realm,” Aerea sneers, chomping back her urge to state she is The Princess. The rightful Heir.
Because she’s not. Not anymore. The title of heir should rightfully be hers, firstborn daughter of Prince Aegon, as opposed to that squealing, pitiful whelp Queen Alysanne had brought into the world.
At least the firstborn one had the decency to die before he left the cradle.
“Excuse me?” The boy looks deeply offended, though Aerea had not intended to cut so sharply with her words. Dragonseed are bastards; he must be used to others addressing him as such. She’s been in King’s Landing before and that is how bastards are treated.
But this King’s Landing is different.
Aerea works her jaw over, wishing desperately she had something edible, something to chew on as she thought this through.
The capital has changed. She and Balerion fell under some strange captivation of the mind in Valyria, she’s certain of it. Her mind had not come back to her until they were distanced from the ruins of her ancestral land. Balerion had been just as disoriented as she, sprawled upon the unforgiving wasteland that the majority of Essos has become in the absence of Valriya.
Then there’s this boy. A dragonseed who rides Vhagar who had been unclaimed when they parted from Dragonstone. This boy who speaks as if he’s high of station and she’s the lowly one.
This boy who doesn’t recognise her.
“Do you know to whom you speak?” the boy says, his face twisting with outrage, a snarl worthy of her cruel uncle smearing across his lips.
Aerea matches it with one of her own, though she fears it falls short of duplicating the level of menace he conveys. It’s the eyepatch; an unfair advantage.
“Do you?” Aerea snarls back, lifting herself to her full height, measly though it is. It matters not; with Balerion rising behind her, she stands the tallest in the world. “Have care how you speak. I am Princess Aerea Targaryen, daughter of the late Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Uncrowned, rider of Balerion, the Black Dread.”
Her chin is tipped up, unable to ignore the fact the dragonseed is quite possibly a head taller than she. Aerea is used to having to direct her gaze up; she has moulded her own face into scowls best viewed from those angles.
But the boy is just staring at her, offering no further reaction than this.
The trim edge of her nails cut neat moons into the meat of her palm and Aerea’s nostrils flair, must as Balerion’s do before other dragons. Scenting them out. All Aerea can smell is dragon-heat and the stench of her own sweat.
“Princess Aerea?” The boy speaks as if he is dazed by her words. Stupid. They cannot have forgotten her just because the man who sits upon a throne that was supposed to be hers has managed to fuck a healthy babe from his wife. Surely not.
He shakes his head, like a hound fresh from the rain, before he palms the sword at his hip and slinks a little closer to her.
He stops in his tracks as Balerion rumbles, the sound deep, underground rocks crashing together as volcanos rumble threats to awaken. Vhagar responds in turn, though Aerea is confident that the she-dragon’s own growl is lacklustre in comparison. She knows Balerion, she knows the Black Dread for she will have witnessed his triumphs in battle. There will be hesitation to her, should a fight break out.
Balerion, fresh from the war-torn calamity that is Valyria now—
He shall not hesitate.
“A poor choice,” the dragonseed suddenly says, nose scrunching but he again eyes Balerion, the descendant of doubt lingering within his eye. “You can plead your case before the King.”
“Gladly,” Aerea snaps, pulling her traveller’s cloak to rest along her shoulders as opposed to hanging back like a glaring red cape. A fool, offering to escort her before the King. She may not be close to her uncle, but she knows the man would sooner take her side than that of a bastard. Speaking of— “Your name?”
His one eye, a blue dark enough it could perhaps be labelled sapphire in colour, flicks back to look at her and he smiles. There is little concern for the knife that still remains in her hand, a blade she shall not willingly relinquish, given the way he twists his lips upward. As if he knows something she does not. As if she has the weaker standing here.
“Aemond.”
Definitely a bastard; there’s been no ‘Aemond’ in House Targaryen before.
Aerea sniffs, resting her free hand against the nearest patch of Balerion’s scales. Should the bastard try anything, she is certain the Black Dread would do whatever it takes to eat him. That? At least, is a comfort.
“Lead on, Aemond.”
The boy scowls at the way she twists his name, as if speaking to a servant.
But lead on he does.
And Aerea follows.